The Life and Death of May Martinez

2. Awake

April 22nd, 2007

 I really don't know what to say. 

 That's not the best way to start off my journal, trust me, I'm perfectly aware. But sometimes first words are difficult, you know? Oops. My apologies. Of course you don't. You're a faux-leather bound, made-in-China dollar store bargain which is about to be subjected to my unbounded whining for the next year, or however long it takes for me to fill up the next hundred or however many pages. 

 I don't even know why I decided to choose this particular moment to start writing. I'm bored, true, but that means I don't have anything to talk about. Well, maybe Dylan. That's what I was thinking about, and how he sat next to me today and I almost managed not to say anything stupid, which is quite the honourable achievement. 

 I guess I really haven't anything else to do (which is a rarity - and probably why I'm not handling it very well), so I'll just introduce myself. Like you're a new friend. Okay. So. 

 My name's May Nicola Martinez, and I'm sixteen (almost seventeen) years old. I also think that about ninety-nine percent of what I'm going to write in this journal will be stupid, unintelligent, and/or extremely self-indulgent, so I might as well get started now. For example, I like the colour red very much. I'm on scholarship to a private school that is so far out of my parents's income it's almost absurd. I have four siblings. The only reason I'm here doing this right now is because the leadership/interact/general good deeds meeting was cancelled, and the twins haven't gotten home from school yet.  

 I should probably read over my Social Studies essay, though, or do another edit. Socials Studies, har di harhar, that's actually quite laughable. I don't know what possessed me to write that down. At Saint Paul's Preparatory Academy for Young People, we don't have Socials, we have "The General Study of Society and Human Behaviour" , and large amounts of homework, primarily in the form of essays. One of which is due tomorrow. I suppose I have to go? What do you say to a journal when you've finished writing? 

 Goodbye. 

April 24th, 2007

 It's around midnight, and dead silent. If I believed in that sort of thing, I could almost say that something in the closet is looking out at me, something with flickering red eyes. Funny, I thought I left that part of my imagination behind long ago. It's only Anita sleeping beside me on the bed, and good thing she doesn't wake easily, or I would be able to turn on my light. She is so sweet when she sleeps. So peaceful. It almost makes me wish I could go back to being nine years old, with only a little cleaning (well, and a rambunctious twin brother) in the way of responsibilities. 

 Here's another great fact about me: I suffer from clinical insomnia. It would be nice if I could get some sort of medication (staring at the walls for hours upon hours is no more exciting during the night than it would be during the day), but prescriptions are expensive and unattainable. My parents do so much, and I would hate to ask them for any more of anything. And besides, Anita needs new shoes for gym class. 

 On another note, the leadership meeting was in session today (after the theatre production rehersal); we're planning a food drive. Sophie wanted to come over and help me with the posters this evening, but I told her I didn't need anyone to help, that I would be fine. She looked a little annoyed. I can't help it, though, I'd rather do things myself. 

 But maybe, and I feel awful about this, I'm a little ashamed too. It's not as if our house is a ruin, but Saint-Paul's is, to put it quite bluntly, a playground for the children of the rich and upper-class. Not to talk it down, I absolutely love it. The community service opportunities are amazing, and the classes are engaging and challenging. But it's just that my friends and acquaintances aren't habituated to… Cramped 50's-style bungalows with sunken living room floors. 

  I should best try to sleep, however futile my efforts might be. Maybe I'll write a little poem first, though. Here it is:

 Nighttime pulls forth a curtain of stars

A sparse, sparkly glitter across the blackened sky.

Cars whiz by in an endless parade of coughing, sputtering engines,

But you cannot see them.

You are in bed, still awake,

Bless me Lord, my soul to take. 

But only if I should fall asleep,

I've counted stars.

Pondered sheep.

My demons that hide within the wrinkles of a worn blanket,

cackle through a haze of late-night insomnia

like drunken hyenas. 

A little while, they say,

Nay. They laugh, they mock.

A little while before you may sleep, they sweet talk. 

Stifling silence,

Headaches and trials

And all the while

You are just

Losing sleep.